Eyes watching in contemplation
Eyes watching eyes with hunger
Eyes watching eyes watching in obscene vertigo
Eyes watching eyes watching eyes in the alcoves of the 
golden door, to which incongruous burning dreams have 
designed the way and the need. Behind the golden door is 
a land of storms, raging, clammy and feverish and its 
lightnings pierce the broken eggs of your eyes. 
Sacrificing to the religion of treachery and betrayal, 
the broken eyes slip in wet cavities, entering tunnels to 
the dark homes thereunder. In exaltation or in necessity, 
the rapes of the night carve their way through the burden 
of the tasteless standards of castration, feeding the 
rage inside, urging to enter the kingdom of 
transgression, its divine wildness, celebrating the 
wicked appeasement through degradation, ordure and 
impudence. Pounding the solar splendour with absurd yet 
passionate anger until the grey hours of little death, 
sign of a cosmic void, an absence just too present, 
choking the possibilities of it not to spread and triumph 
over divineless will. The golden door and its bitter 
rains falling of the cheeks like obscene tears, sacred 
gate to abnormal mysteries where the dogs are unleashed 
after innocence. And the vile torrents daze the soul in 
lascivious drunkenness to finally erase all the 
boundaries. The solar passage banishes the shame and let 
the will betray the shells of the past to better find its 
way towards the last of the houses.